Cheese Cube Curse

I knew you fell in love with me when we made eye contact while I held twenty cheddar cheese cubes in my mouth. As the only person who could do that rather odd skill at the college party, I held the honorary “Champion of Cheese Cubes” title, which I could tell thoroughly impressed you by the way your pulpy ears bounced and your chubby tongue wiggled out of your mouth similar to the likes of the Pepto Bismol tongue of Herbert, my Leopard Gecko. Of course, I really like Herbert, so, quite frankly, you should be flattered. You’re welcome for the compliment.

Do you remember when I tried to swallow one of the numerous cheese cubes, but I started to choke, neon orange crumbs plummeting to the floor, creating a slobbery carpet of an artificially carrot coloured wasteland? You gaped at me, your bulging toad eyes twitching with love. Don’t deny that you weren’t hypnotized by my lack of sophistication. It’s not like your past lovers were graceful swans, frolicing in the moonlight. Sorry. I guess I’m jealous of them. Am I being too honest? I know you’ve always been sensitive. 

 Sometimes, when I think of how I persuaded you to buy me three twelve packs of sauerkraut at Costco, I remember how you looked at those packs with hope. Hope, that maybe that sour, stenchy liquid full of acidic cabbage would bring you a stable marriage, with me, this girl who you met while she was stuffing twenty cheese cubes in her mouth. I know that that hope rapidly fattened into a massive balloon that I swiftly squashed beneath my bright yellow bumblebee Vans. 

I’m sure that you thought you were unique compared to the men that I dated in the past. You like to think that you came and rescued me away from my supposed tedious, monotonous life, with the only highlight being the chance to flex my cheese-holding. You gained a chance to inflate your colossal ego even more with the act of saving a poor girl. Plus, you decided, you would rope me into a steady relationship through gifts and sweet manipulation that would satisfy your need for a stable life. I know of your dreams of being a man, of having that trophy wife, being able to flaunt her around, successful not only in work, but also in the bedroom. You believed that I would make you feel intelligent, smart, accepted into the "Boy’s Club", that dream world where everything goes according to your plan, not mine.

But, as we both are aware now, you were so wrong. You denied it at first to yourself. Don’t think I didn’t catch you staring distractedly into that open plastic package of Tillamook Cheddar, reminiscing on the time you noticed my abstract act. I knew what was going on through your head. I’m not stupid, unlike what you liked to think of me. And as soon as you realized that, you started blaming me for everything. Were you trying to outsmart me? Were you trying again to recreate that perfect couple vision, of the leading man and the following woman? I thought you were better than that, but thankfully I was not there for love. 

You believed that you were cursed, as an abundance of cheddar cheese cubes started to appear in the sink, in your moldy slippers that you refused to throw away, in the bathtub, in your nose, eyes, ears and dreams. You told me this was all my fault. That I was the one who caused you all this pain, suffering and what other horrible noun you could come up with. Absolutely ridiculous. And for you, to think that I wouldn’t leave after I got what I wanted? That you were enough for me? You really did have an orange piece of wool wrapped around your eyes, only peeking out to blame me for any issues you created.

It’s not my fault your first apartment burned down (it was old and ugly anyway), it wasn’t my fault that you lost your job at your sales company (you always complained about your co-workers, didn’t you?) and it certainly was not my fault that your car was stolen (you needed a lesson on how to be grateful, so it’s actually a favor that the robber did). And then you started accusing me of those things! Like I would burn down an apartment? You know I’m terrified of fire, and that I hate heat that strong. It’s true that I could’ve hired someone to do that for me, I suppose. It is true that I contacted multiple arsonists around the area, but it was only for a cup of tea and some cheddar slices. You don’t believe me, do you? How could you accuse me like that, and how could you expect me to believe that all those late night meetings were simply business meetings, not men playing too many games of poker? You think I didn’t notice how slowly the nice porcelain, the expensive speakers disappeared from our house, leaving behind an army of gleeful dust bunnies? As the bank account numbers sizzled down, as your grandma’s decade old golden jewelry suddenly vanished, and as our flat screen TV was ripped out by you and taken to the “pawnshop”, (because you said we didn’t need to live life in luxury, even though you originally insisted on buying it), I was getting very, very angry. You thought you could hide your habit. You thought you could leave me out of your business. You underestimated me for too long. 

You were never enough for me, though. You were not only disgusting, piling on mountains and mountains of Easy Cheese into your flabby throat, expelling chunks of solidified ham when you shoved too much of that stringy cheese down, you were also unhygienic, leaving your grimy, clipped toenails along the kitchen counter (Kitchen counter!? Have you no manners? Clearly.) and then of course, blaming me for the stench of your putrid socks that you casually draped over every single chair in the house! You must understand why I was so sick of you, of your burnt mustache that was full of crumbs from yesterday’s meal of bright pink ham (of course, what else?) and your horrendous polo shirts that had a (to put it nicely) tapestry of multiple stains in different shades of brown, ranging from poop brown to chocolate brown.

I was the bright light in your life, the woman that made everything better. You can’t deny that I didn’t make your social circle better, didn’t draw the attention of your colleagues that you so desired.

You weren’t cursed, you fool. You were lucky. And I? I was a piece of shining cheddar cheese in your forgotten fridge.